


Taste This

by raregloves



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Implied Threesome & Voyeurism, M/M, Mild Hand Kink, POV Multiple, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2136249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raregloves/pseuds/raregloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cohabitation is a work in progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste This

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: thank you for creating a place for all the rare ships <3 could you perhaps write john/moriarty/sherlock? maybe smth domestic like this: nerdmoriarty(.)tumblr(.)com/post/88085125314/can-we-talk-about-domestic-johnlockiarty-tho

Thump. Thump. _Thump._ Moan. Thump.

Sherlock glanced up at the clock and sighed. They’d be at it for another ten minutes at least.   
  
He’d walked in on them once, mid-thrust. There had been a case and in his excitement he had missed all the signs. Clothes strewn around the flat, a cup of tea knocked over. He hadn’t knocked. They had both turned to look at him, eyes wide, skin sweaty, mouths open like a couple of startled animals. Sherlock had burst out laughing. It hadn’t gone down well.  
  
(John had tried to cover up his genitals and Jim had thrown something at him. He’d solved that case without their help, anyway. That’s what sex did to people- made them uninterested in beheadings. Awful business.)   
  
Nine minutes.  
  
The last case had been astounding. Jim had helped set up parts of it, and Sherlock would have to find a creative way to thank him for that someday soon. He was looking forward to John writing it up on his blog.   
  
Ever since Jim had become a permanent fixture within 221B John had been putting even more effort than usual into his blog. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of that. Hadn’t he been interesting enough? Would he be more interesting if he put out? Hmm.

 

~

 

‘Do you ever feel like you’re missing out?’  
  
John was drinking, which meant that he was going to talk about his emotions. And the emotions of other people. Jim was in the kitchen, experimenting pointlessly with fruits. His aim was to make an apple taste like a banana. It was deeply unscientific.   
  
‘Missing out on what?’  
  
He was drinking too, though not as heavily as John. They were sitting in their chairs by the fire. Jim didn’t have his own chair, as he preferred stretching out on the ground or sitting on Johns lap.  
  
‘You know,’ John said, waving his hand. ‘All the… other stuff of relationships.’   
  
‘All the _other stuff,_ ’ Sherlock repeated, sarcastically.   
  
Of course, he did know what John was talking about, what John was worried about. Did he feel excluded, because he was uninterested in having sex? Did he become jealousy of their physical intimacy?  
  
But Sherlock didn’t want to talk about that very much, so he made John work for it. If John wanted to have an awkward conversation, he was going to have to use his words.  
  
‘Shagging, Sherlock. Don’t play dumb with me.’  
  
‘Do I feel sad because I’m not shagging the two of you?’  
  
‘Yeah.’ John smiled at him, almost shyly. He liked it when Sherlock used coarse language, though he didn’t know that Sherlock knew this.  
  
‘Not really, no,’ Sherlock said. ‘As long as you’re both here, with me.’  
  
‘Where else would we be, Sherly?’ Jim demanded, emerging from the kitchen with a large silver bowl. His eyes landed on John. ‘You’re such a sentimental drunk. It’s so… touching.’  
  
‘Touching,’ echoed Sherlock, rolling his eyes, ‘is the subject of our conversation, which is now ending.’  
  
‘Just want to be sure,’ John said, holding up his hands in surrender and dripping his drink down his jumper.   
  
‘Sweet,’ Jim said, clearly barely interested. ‘Now, taste this, both of you, and tell me how successful I am.’  
  
John sniffed the bowl and shrugged, dipping his hand in. Jim had created some kind of yellow goo, which John licked off his fingers. Sherlock knew John would never have done so if Sherlock had offered him yellow goo. He’d have assumed it was brain juice or poison or something.  
  
‘It’s… Well. I don’t know. Sweet? Fruity? It doesn’t taste like anything I’ve tasted before.’  
  
‘Hmm.’  
  
Jim turned and offered Sherlock the bowl, and Sherlock sighed before tasting some of the yellow goo as well. It didn’t taste like apple or banana, in his opinion, but it was rather good all the same. He smiled.  
  
‘I’ll get you a spoon,’ Jim said, beaming.

 

~

 

John had a sixth sense when it came to Jim and Sherlock. Some days he feared leaving the flat with both of them inside it, and it _wasn’t_ paranoia, not after the incident on the balcony.   
  
Sherlock called John ‘suspicious’ and ‘untrusting’ and ‘mean-spirited’ when he voiced his fears. Well, that wasn’t the way he saw it. You had to be on the alert with Sherlock. John had once been cooking a steak to eat for dinner (thinking that any large bit of cut meat in their fridge that wasn’t rotted was probably not an experiment) when Sherlock had started asking him questions about his ‘illicit dietary preferences’ and his ‘previous cannibalistic experiences.’

And with Jim in 221B, egging Sherlock on and giving him ideas, he’d become worse than ever. Not that John really minded. Not at all, when he was honest with himself. Having found somebody as strange and as brilliant as Sherlock had seemed like a miracle at the time. Now he had _two_ of them…  
  
Even so, he could tell something was wrong the moment he turned into Baker Street. He’d taken a short shift at work, more to do the place a favor than because they needed the cash, and had hoped that nothing disastrous would happen in his absence, as Sherlock had been sleeping and Jim had been out.  
  
Yet it had been a false hope. The hairs on the back of his neck rose the closer he got to 221B, and he was already feeling pissed off and secretly, fondly exasperated before he even had his keys in the door.  
  
Mrs Hudson met him at the bottom of the seventeen steps, looking anxious.   
  
‘Oh, John, I really think you should go up, I think I can smell smoke and you know what he’s like-’  
  
‘Cigarette smoke?’ John said, startled. Sherlock hadn’t smoked for a very, very long time now, and barely seemed to have cravings anymore, either.  
  
‘No, no, something a bit stronger than that,’ Mrs Hudson said. ‘If there’s any damage I’ll not be paying for it, you know.’  
  
‘I know,’ John said, giving her his most calm and reassuring smile. ‘I’ll go sort everything out, don’t you worry.’  
  
John half-jogged up the steps, making sure each foot-fall was loud and unmistakable. That would give them enough time to fix whatever they were doing- or think up a good excuse. He could already smell smoke, and it Mrs Hudson had been right, it clearly wasn’t cigarette smoke.  
  
He slammed the door to the flat open, body tensed, prepared for basically anything. Jim and Sherlock were standing on opposite sides of the room, refusing to look at each other, and refusing to look at the small pile of burning things on the table.  
  
John identified most of the chess set, a pillow from the lounge, and a mostly empty tube of hand cream. The pillow was burning quite well. The cream seemed to be bubbling, and was responsible for the worst of the smell.  
  
‘Fire?’ John suggested, pointing at it. ‘No? Neither of you? _Fine._ Fine.’  
  
He fetched the fire extinguisher (he kept one in every room, these days) and foamed the table. There hadn’t been too much damage to the table itself, John noted, though the pillow was destined for the trash.  
  
‘All clear, Mrs Hudson,’ John shouted down the stairs. ‘Nothing to worry about.’  
  
He closed the door and glared at the Jim and Sherlock, who were still refusing to look at each other. John sighed, and opened the windows, letting fresh air in. Sherlock looked as if he hadn’t been out of bed for more than ten minutes.  
  
‘So, what was it?’ John asked, hardly expecting an answer. ‘Experiment gone wrong? Did you time it somehow, so I’d arrive just in time to see? Or was it an experimental art piece?’  
  
Jim snorted. John rounded on him and Jim quickly looked at his feet, a picture of remorse and innocence. John felt his heart flutter a little but didn’t let it show on his face.  
  
‘Well? Hm?’  
  
‘We were discussing reality and existentialism,’ Jim said, still not looking at John. ‘It was a robust philosophical conversation.’  
  
‘God!’ John threw his hands into the air, shaking his head. ‘You’re impossible, both of you. Why do your philosophical discussions _always_ end like this?’  
  
He turned and stopped up to his old bedroom, trying to make his shoulders look angry. Mostly, though, he had to get out of the room before they saw how much he wanted to laugh. He couldn’t let them think he was amused, or all hell would brake loose.

 

~

 

Sherlock couldn’t see them, but he knew what they were up to. He was in the kitchen, they were on the lounge, and from the increase in Johns breathing over the past four minutes Jim had his hand down Johns pants.  
  
Now, normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. They still had their privacy, Sherlock wasn’t being asked to touch anybody, all was well in the world, and so on. The problem was that Jim had brought pineapple that day.  
  
When Jim had done something for you, like giving you a highly fascinating case, sometimes he liked something difficult in return (solve a cypher, paint a picture). On the other hand, sometimes he wanted very simple things in return, like cupcakes.   
  
Jim liked eating cupcakes, and he liked having Sherlock and John make the cupcakes for him. This apparently doubled the pleasure of eating them. But he didn’t convince John with interesting cases, he convinced John with sex. Which meant that any minute now-  
  
On cue, John staggered into the kitchen, his erection painfully obvious inside his trousers. His face was flushed and he looked both horny and annoyed. Jim wandered in behind him, grinning.  
  
‘Sherlock, stop whatever that is, we’re making Jim the damn cupcakes.’  
  
‘You’re so easily manipulated, John, have you no shame?’  
  
‘No,’ John snapped, ‘and don’t talk bollocks. He gives handjobs to your brain, not your dick, but that doesn’t make you special.’  
  
‘Rude,’ Sherlock said, crossing his legs. ‘Jim and my brain have a very special connection, entirely untainted by sperm.’  
  
‘Whatever,’ John said, seizing and apron and jamming it over Sherlocks head. ‘Cut up the pineapple for me, will you?’  
  
Jim was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. Sherlock stood up, resigning himself to the inevitable, and Jim took his seat, getting comfortable.  
  
‘I do adore this,’ he said, his leg bouncing happily. ‘My two lovely little detectives cooking for me.’  
  
Sherlock started hacking at the pineapple with a large knife, pleased that John had at least given him the least tedious task of them all. John was getting things out of the fridge, his lips set in a thin, determined line. His erection hadn’t faltered.  
  
‘The instructions are beside the microwave,’ Jim said. ‘I put them there yesterday.’  
  
‘Yes, Jim,’ Sherlock said, glancing at them as John collected eggs from the fridge.  
  
‘And both of you be careful not to add any egg shell into the mix, hm?’ Jim said.  
  
‘Yes, Jim,’ they chorused.   
  
Sherlock could feel Jim beaming at them.

 

~

 

They didn’t have fights (much of their fighting had been done very early on, when Jim had been apologizing for assuming a bomb vest had been a good method of seduction- John still said it wasn’t, Jim still said it was, and privately Sherlock agreed with Jim).  
  
Now disputes tended to be completely petty, but very ongoing. For example, when John and Jim had gotten a suspect stain on Sherlocks chair, Sherlock had retaliated by putting all the cutlery in the house on the top shelves in the kitchen, where neither John nor Jim could easily reach it. This had gone on for five months.  
  
John had violated Sherlocks sock index after Sherlock had unplugged the TV during the World Cup. He had taken his perfectly color coded socks and mixed them up, and had then hidden three of them, making it impossible for Sherlock to put it right again.  
  
In Sherlocks opinion, however, Jim had done John a lot of good. Some of his most offensive jumpers had vanished (Jim, he suspected, had had them dissolved in acid) and his jeans were newer and tighter than they had been.

And they both gave sublime headrubs.

 

~

 

Sherlock was sitting in his usual chair, eyes closed, pale hands pressed together under his chin. His breathing was so even, and his body was so still, that anybody but Jim might’ve thought he was sleeping. Jim knew better, though.  
  
He was sitting in Johns chair, pondering. John was watching him ponder from across the room, as if he could sense that Jim was up to something and was waiting to see what.  
  
Jim was interested in the expanding of horizons. He wanted to see familiar things in unexpected ways, old things improved or destroyed, new things, always new things. He appreciated loyalty, honesty (John) and didn’t make the mistake of thinking of loyalty and honesty as inherently good.   
  
Sherlock declared that some of his experiments lacked scientific accuracy, or that they were pointless, or subjective. Whatever.   
  
He beckoned John over with his finger, indicating that he should be quiet enough to not disturb Sherlock. It was important that Sherlock not open his eyes until the right moment.  
  
John kicked his shoes off silently and crossed the room in his socks, making no noise at all. His face was alight with curiosity, and that expression had to be one of Jims favorites. He indicated that John should sit where he was, that he would sit back down on Johns lap.  
  
John sat, the chair creaking only very slightly. Jim slid onto his lap, enjoying the warmth of his body, the solid weight of him underneath him. They were the same height, but John was heavier, with both more fat and more muscle than Jim had.  
  
They kissed each other, slowly, wetly, and Jim could feel how John smiled against his lips. He wondered if John already knew what he wanted, if John could already tell what he had in mind. The sound of their breathing, the sound of their kissing, would probably be enough to draw Sherlock out of his mind palace.  
  
Johns hand had strayed to his trousers, playing idly with his zipper. Jim shook his head. He was half hard, but it wasn’t what he had in mind. Besides, they had no lube, and Johns hands, though warm, were calloused.  
  
He took Johns hand and guided it up towards his mouth. There was a sharp intake of breath from the chair opposite them- Sherlocks pale eyes were wide open, his cheeks pink. Jim felt Johns growing arousal beneath him, and he winked at Sherlock.  
  
John exhaled hard as Jim kissed the tips of his middle and pointer fingers. Many people underestimated how sensitive the human hand was, how versatile it could be. But Sherlock wasn’t one of those people. His fingers were musical and precise.   
  
Jim moaned, entirely unabashed, as John pushed both his fingers past his lips. They tasted salty, and a little soapy. He hollowed his cheeks, felt Johns hips twitch underneath him, and glanced at Sherlock, who was going red. But he didn’t look mortified- he looked fascinated. Jim let his eyes flutter closed, and put both his hands around Johns wrist, pulling him closer, as if trying to get his fingers as deep down his throat as he could.   
  
John growled into his ear, his free hand sliding up under Jims shirt, finding his nipples, pinching them, making Jim whine and twist on his lap. He lapped at Johns fingers, tracing the sensitive skin underneath the join of his knuckles. John was panting now, loudly, into his ear.  
  
Slowly, slowly, Jim drew back. His saliva clung to Johns fingers obscenely, though it dried swiftly thanks to the heat of the fire. Sherlocks mouth was open in honest, and rather endearing, surprise.  
  
‘Well, Sherlock?’ Jim said, gently.   
  
‘I. Um.’ Sherlock scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘Yes, actually. I see that it could, indeed, be…’  
  
‘Amazing?’ John suggested, roughly. ‘Interesting? Mildly enjoyable?’  
  
‘Mildly enjoyable, yes,’ Sherlock agreed, lips twitching. ‘I don’t think I’d be opposed, theoretically, to a… viewing.’  
  
Jim smiled at him, delighted and amused. It was such a joy, seeing Sherlock pink and wrong-footed, whist having John hard and eager underneath him.  
  
‘Well then,’ he said, ‘sometime in the theoretical future I think we’ll invite you along. As long as you behave yourself.’  
  
He turned to John, kissed the tip of his nose.  
  
‘You behave yourself too,’ he said. ‘No sarcastic comments for him to take literally.’  
  
‘Yes, Jim,’ John said, his voice still rather strained. Was there anything better than the expression in the eyes of a sexually frustrated John Watson? Probably not.   
  
‘Very good,’ Jim said, standing up. He took both John and Sherlocks hands, smiled at them both, basking at having both of them looking at him for direction. ‘However… I admit I’d really _adore_ some chocolate croissants.’  
  
Sherlock started coughing and then chocking, as though he’d swallowed a fly, and Johns face was simply, absolutely tortured. John hit Sherlock on the back with a bit more force than necessary, while Jim struggled to keep a straight face.   
  
_‘A-are you seh-serious?’_ Sherlock chocked out.  
  
‘Deadly,’ Jim said, batting his eyelashes and unbuttoning his shirt. ‘You can both start cooking for me… right _after_ we finish what we started. I love eating after fucking.’  
  
John let out a huge sigh of relief and Jim laughed, draping his shirt over the back of Johns chair before heading to the bedroom.  
  
‘Hurry up, though,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’m already starving to see the two of you naked in aprons, cooking for me.’

**Author's Note:**

> You can send me a prompt on my tumblr- I love rare pair fic :)
> 
> raregloves.tumblr.com


End file.
